


Mall Episode

by CyberSearcher



Series: Moving Forward [1]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types
Genre: Alan being Alan, Alan is best dad, Gen, Mall Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 09:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19059943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyberSearcher/pseuds/CyberSearcher
Summary: While Sam and Quorra go shopping for new outfits for an ENCOM event, Alan takes Tron to get a haircut. Simple enough.But who are we kidding, it’s Tron, prepair for mild angst.





	Mall Episode

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EnglishLanguage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishLanguage/gifts).



> I had to google concealer brands for this fanfic. I know absolutely jack diddly squat about concealer brands. 
> 
> Also, would you believe me if I said I’d almost writen the end with Alan driving away without Sam since I’d forgotten about him and Quorra? (pls forgive)
> 
> Also also, super sorry EnglishLanguage that this came out sooooo late lol. On the plus side, I do have two other ideas and Frosted Glass Just needs it epilogue. 
> 
> Now I just need to decide which I do first *:D

Tron fought the urge to fidget as the claustrophobic sensation wormed its way around his head. Quorra - for the most part - was happy, face pressed against the window as she took in the sights of the street around them. Alan-One’s personal transport - car - did provide enough room for the four of them, but he still felt cagey. 

He’d been urged awake by Alan and - after a very brief and extremely confusing explanation - herded outside along with Sam, stating that he’d be taking all three of them to a ‘Mall’. Sam provided more data and told him it served the same function as a Storage System or a Database, but on a much larger scale. Though Tron couldn’t quite grasp the concept, he’d followed his Users instructions without protest. 

Said younger Flynn was still gripping to his User about their reason for the trip in the first place. “Why can’t I just wear my jacket,” He groaned, leaning against the windows of Alan-One’s car, “stupid, business banquets.” 

“You really didn’t know what you were getting yourself into.” Alan stated, sighing and rolling his eyes. 

“Do I ever?” 

That’s broke out a fond laugh from the older User. “Fair. But still, you need to show the board that you can handle this position. And you can’t do that by jumping of another building.” 

Tron heard a reluctant huff from the seat in front of him. But no further argument. Looking up from his seat, he watched as dozens of Users walked through the building. Each of them with diverse renders - _race_ \- and all of them engaged with some activity or other. He had to wonder how difficult it might be to act as security with such a large concentration of Users. The idea of losing Alan-One to a bustling crowd filled Tron with apprehension. His grip on the seat tightens. 

“C’mon kids, everyone out.” 

Quickly finding his User, he stands behind him and tries not to slouch reflexively* as they walk towards the mall. Tron notices how most of the entrance is composed of glass, behind it are several User suits - _clothes_ \- set out for display. 

It’s impractical, the use of such a delicate material. Tron makes a brief note, one of a growing list. Inside, the Program is sure to stick closer to his Users side as more people flood his vision. He’s glad for his restored height, it makes it marginally easier to keep track of their movements. Alan guided them towards a specific type of clothing and begins handing them to Sam. 

“Quorra, I trust you won’t let him run away?” He asks the ISO. 

She grins. Behind her, Tron sees Sam freeze just as he tries to sneak back the tuxedo. “I won’t.” 

“Good.” He nods to them both, then turns back to Tron, “now, I’ll be taking you to a close friend of mine. She’ll be giving you a haircut.”

“Haircut?” Tron tilts his head. Idly brushing back some fallen strands of hair, before scratching the back of his head. 

“Yea, you definitely need one.” His User quips, pushing back more hair. 

They begin walking. And Tron eventually discovers that the outward building is significantly larger than he expects. There’s an entire new section to this mall that connects to the place the entire just entered. Several dozen other establishments are set inside the walls. Each of them look so vastly different, a dozen different smells and each displays different items. It’s crowded and tight and he needs to close his eyes because it’s _too familiar_ and it _hurts_. 

Alan-One turns and Tron suddenly realizes he’s frozen in place. His head falls back towards the ground and more hair falls to frame his face. Even if he knows his User doesn’t judge so swiftly - _Clu would punish this, imperfection_ \- Tron can’t quell the shame so easily. Alan-One just smiles, patient and sympathetic and waits for his Program to catch up. Once he does, he offers his hand to Tron. 

His head raised back up and he stands practically shoulder to shoulder against his User. Alan-One’s fingers gently brush against the lines of circuits and it eases him. The pressure and hum of energy is also strikingly familiar, but it comes from his User - _true User, his real Creator_ \- so he can’t find anything to fear. Alan-One guides him through the crowds of other Users and Tron keeps himself from flinching whenever he thinks someone brushes past him. 

He’s lead towards one of the establishments; open fronted with several Users sitting in chairs with black cloth draped over their shoulders. The sign above says **’Garnett’s Salon’**. A odd construct is attached to part of the wall, a spinning cylinder with slanted stripes of red, blue and white contained within a glass case. It makes him dizzy focusing on it too hard. Alan-One leads him inside and waves over another User with pearl white hair tied up in a bun.

Taking stock of the full interior of the building, there are several shelves and mirrors lining the walls. The shelves are full of tools he can’t name, but most have edges that end in sharp points. One User has one of these tools held close to their head by another User as he cuts away pieces of their hair. 

Tron once again goes stiff and Alan can feel it. He spares a quick glance to his Program and squeezes his hand for reassurance. “Business been good, Beau?” He calls out. 

She turns and smiles sweetly. “Alan, it’s good to see you again. Back so soon?”

“It’s not for me this time.” He says. “I wanted to introduce you to Tron. He needed a cut and I trust you the most out of anyone here.” 

Tron has enough awareness left to nod in respect. Beau looks him up and down and narrows her expression lowers into a narrow gaze. He fights the urge to scratch at his left cheek. “Tron… he looks exactly like you.”

“He was estranged for a long time. Family drama.” Alan tells her and Tron is amazed by how easily his User can concoct a plausible excuse. “The name is just a massive coincidence.”

“Really?” She wonders. “Must’ve been quite a shock, meeting you for the first time.”

“That… would be an understatement.” He falters. “But yes, it was.”

Beau turns a chair towards the duo, before she turns to collect a set of items from the adjacent shelf. Alan-One turns back towards Tron, watching for anyone who may be listening and leans in to whisper. “Beau can be trusted. I’ve known her for years. She does gossip, but she’s mostly harmless.”

“I knew her.” Tron spits out. At his Users confused expression, he explains further. “She was a Siren, her name was Gem. She worked at a club. End of Line.” 

His User can hear the grimm bitterness that comes with recalling his time on the Grid. Along with the use of past tense, Alan doesn't ask what happened to her. He already knows. “I can stay with you.” He offers. “I needed to ask Beau about how to apply makeup properly anyways.”

“No, I’ll be fine by myself.” Tron says, reluctantly releasing his User hands, “I’m capable of maintaining my independence. It’s what you created me for.” 

“Are you certain?” He insists. Even if Alan knows his Programs answer. 

“Yes.” He nods.

Tron can see Alan-One’s eyes searching his face for any kind of hesitation or fear, any sort of tell. But Tron doesn’t let himself crack. His User eventually just sighs and mirrors his nod. “Alright, but if Beau does anything to make you uncomfortable, tell her and she’ll stop. If she doesn’t, you have my permission to make her.” 

Tron nods again. Alan turns back to Beau. “I’m sorry I couldn’t chat more, but there’s some other things I needed to buy. You told me that there was a brand of concealer on sale, which one was it again?” 

“Third store down. Lancomê; it’s a waterproof, spray on brand. Though if that’s too expensive, there’s the L’Oriel one. But it doesn’t blend as easily, you’ll have a harder time finding the proper shade too.” 

“Thank you again. Just a trim should be good enough for him. Try not to cut it too short.” He instructs Beau. “Tron’s fussy about people touching him too often, so keep it brief as you can. Avoid covering his eyes too and make sure you’re always in view.”

“I know how to treat my customers Alan.” Beau shakes her head fondly. “I promise to keep Tron safe.”

“Right, right.” He says, more to remind himself. The Program watches as Alan-One brushes past him, smoothing a hand down his shoulder before stepping back out of the store, “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Tron has to remind himself to move when he finally turns back and towards the chair Beau has set before him. He sits and lets her turn him towards the mirror. Seeing his reflection, Tron has to keep his head facing strictly forward. He looks so ragged. His Users clothes - a dark blue turtleneck and pressed jeans - hang looser on his frame than he expects. His skin is so pale it glows like his circuits under the fluorescent lights and his hair falls in stringy ribbons. 

In some ways, he misses the helmet, at least he didn’t have to worry about his hair then. Or the subtle, yet present look of pity on Beau’s face. 

“I’ll start with the back of your head.” She drapes and pins a black cloth around his shoulders, then holds up a spray bottle and a long, thin device with several prongs. 

Tron squeezes the armrests as Beau sprays his hair with liquid before pulls the device through his hair. It tugs at his scalp and he’s sure to keep his head stiff so he doesn’t get pulled back. She continues to drag the tool through his hair and gradually wetting his hair. He keeps his eyes focused straight, at least with the mirror he can make sure his expression is always neutral. 

“So Tron, how’s Alan been treating you?” 

He doesn’t expect Beau to talk to him, Tron isn’t even sure what to say. But he welcomes the distraction from the sound of scissors cutting behind him. “He’s very kind.” 

Beau hums in approval behind him. “He certainly is.” 

As she continues her work, she trims at his hair until Tron can’t feel it brushing past his shoulders anymore. His nape is excruciatingly bare and part of him worries that his circuits or scars peek from under the cloth. Beau keeps cutting, now leaning over to his left. Tron’s eyes twitch ever so slightly as she does. 

“Did you have anything specific in mind for this cut?” She asks again. 

The Program doesn’t know what to say again. So he just shakes his head the best he can. This time, Tron sees Beau’s lips purse. “You don’t enjoy speaking, do you?” 

It’s a miss, but the statement is true enough. He can’t remember saying anything more than broken growls for over a thousand cycles. Tron’s fingers start to pick at the chipped leather on the armrests, the urge to scratch rising again. 

“That’s alright.” She says. “Alan wasn’t either when he first came to me. You’re both so similar.” 

Tron notices that the spray bottle is still angled towards his face. He gives himself permission to lean away for a fraction. Flecks of water fall onto his cheek and the Program stiffens. “Oh, sorry dear.” Beau apologies, reaching for a fluffy brush. 

She dusts of the fleck of water and Tron hopes that he hasn’t left indents in the armrests with how hard he’s squeezing them. When her hand suddenly pauses, he squeezes his eyes shut and crushes down the urge to run. Once he opens his eyes, Tron reads her expression. It’s transparent. 

The mirror reflects her shock as her eyes are fixed onto his face. She’s brushed away the fragile layer of powder that hid the perfectly, disturbingly precise pixels that composed his scar. He’s still amazed that it transferred over in the first place. Dark black against his pale skin, it could almost be mistaken for vitiligo. 

It’s itching again and Tron’s hand moves just before he tells himself that he can endure this. He steels his expression - a useful trick, he muses - and looks back to her. 

“Just finish your work.” He says, it’s cold, but at least it isn’t dripping with tense anxiety. 

Beau does shift her focus back, but Tron goes tense when he sees her smile. He narrows his eyes, already calculating how long it would take to disarm her, find Alan-One and escape. 

“I think you’d need a different brand than Lancomé. They tend to irritate sensitive skin after a few weeks. Here,” She kneels in front of him and holds out a small powder case, “I can apply a quick layer if you want.”

Tron doesn’t know what to say. The Users lack of a reaction could be attributed to their proximity to other Users, but the Program still can’t help but feel grateful. He nods, even if he isn’t thrilled at the prospect of being touched again. Beau - to her credit - is quick. She dots his face with the powder before stepping back to her work without further questioning. 

She works deftly from that point, now without her usual commentary. Tron eventually relax enough to watch her work without a sense of unease. He’s amazed to see how much of an effect losing a few inches has. His face is cleared from the shadows cast by the long curtain of black-brown. Though he’s still as pale as a ghost, his hair looks significantly more presentable. 

“There, all done.” Beau says, setting back her tools and undoes the clip holding the sheet around his neck, “you can stand now. Alan should be back soon.” 

Tron makes sure to relax his grip and smooths down any marks in the leather before she can see any potential damage. Immediately, his hand goes to his cheek. Hovering just above his scar, he pulls it back and remains himself not to scratch. He settles for picking at the cuffs of his shirt. 

Standing and walking back to the entrance, Tron waits anxiously for his User. Glancing down the stream of other people, he tries to single out Alan-One’s signature silver-grey hair. The monitor eventually notices Beau comes to stand by his side, still a touch too close for his liking. He shifts on his feet, tilting his head away from her face and hopes she continues not to ask any more pervasive questions. 

Once he finally spots his User - now clutching a small bag and wearing a vaguely irritated expression - Tron can’t help but smile. He can pick out his voice easily through the crowd, muttering about ‘lineups’ and ‘cashiers’. “Can’t believe it took me that long, who checks out that much eyeshadow? Impudent little-“

“The lineup was tedious?” Beau calls out to him fondly. 

“A nightmare.” He retorts. 

“Don’t worry about that. May I see?” She gestures to the small bag, which his User hands off without protest. 

He takes the time to step back to face his Program. It’s then he realizes Trons new haircut. It may just be coincidence - knowing Beau, Alan doubts it - but Tron’s hair is practically the same as him back in his twenties. Short at the back with a long fringe and partied though the middle. Alan-One is snapped out of it once he realizes Tron picking at his cuffs again. Said Program hastily cancels the action. 

“Sorry, you just… you really do look like me now.” He tries to be light, he’s not sure 8f he succeeds. 

“Come back anytime you you two.” Beau cuts in, handing back Alan-One’s bag. Tron doesn’t miss the way she slips something extra inside. 

“Of course, how much do I owe you?” Alan-One asks, pulling out a small fold of bills. 

“You don’t, consider this a favour.” She smiles, offering a brief glance at Tron. 

Tron still can’t shake of the uncanny resemblance - in personality and form - of the Siren. But he manages to give her a small tilt of his mouth that partway counts as a smile. She winks conspiratorially, before waving and turning back to serve another customer. 

“What did you think of her?” Alan-One asks as they make their way across the parking lot, finding his car and stepping inside. He sends a brief message to Sam and Quorra, telling them that they’ll be waiting. 

Tron is sure to thank his User later. Finally free from the crowd of eyes, Tron gives himself time to think of an answer that isn’t one worded. “She wanted to know about my living condition with yo and my preferences for the haircut. She made comparisons between us regarding how we didn’t return her commentary initially.” 

Alan-One laughs, Tron can’t understand what he finds funny. “That’s not exactly what I mean. What do you think of her? As a person? Her personality.” 

“She was very… polite?” Tron can’t decide if that word describes her accurately. “She didn’t not force me to answer her inquiries. And… when she saw my scars, she didn’t not request an explanation.” 

“Beau saw them?” That statement makes his User pause in his tracks. Alan-One turns sharply, almost reaches for him instinctively, “what did she do? Did she touch you? Don’t try to pretend you’re okay if you’re not.” 

“Beau recommended a different brand of… concealer to use to cover them.” He answers truthfully. “She was brief when she reapplied the powder.” 

“She did? Damit, I’ll go back in, just hope I didn’t throw away the receipt-“ Alan-One pauses as he fishes for the bag, only to pull up the same bottle Tron recalls Beau held. Attached to it is a note written in elegant cursive. 

Whatever’s on it is enough to make his User smile and set it back in the bag without argument. “Oh, I almost forgot.” 

He pulls out a booklet that fits smoothly in the palms of his hands. Alan reaches behind and sets it in his Programs lap. “It’s called a dictionary. It’s a Users language archive. Since you’ve been having problems with some words, I thought you’d appreciate it.” 

Tron looks down at the booklet and self loathing suddenly floods his circuits - _less than perfect, should, must function without assistance_. Alan-One doesn’t miss the way it flickers across his face. 

“Tron, Tron please look at me.” He gently orders, smoothing his wrinkled hands over his fists, “listen, don’t take it like that. Just cause you can’t do one thing doesn’t make you a failure. You’re the best damn security Program I’ve ever written. Got it?”

It still amazes Tron how easily his User can read him. Though he wishes he could at least keep some of his secrets, even if it’s his User. 

“It’s okay if you still feel like this though. You can feel bad, just don’t get stuck like that.” Alan-One supplements. “You’re getting better, it’s what you always do Tron.” 

The Program nods briskly - he doesn’t trust his voice to remain even - and even manages to lift his head halfway and smile. The expression is mirrored in his Users face, causing the wrinkles linking his eyes and cheeks to raise and emphasize his fondness. 

“Thank you Alan-O… Alan.”


End file.
